Twisted Black
by AndromedaMarine
Summary: 3RD STORY IN "DARK UNIVERSE." STRONG PLATONIC JOHNLOCK. Wing!Lock, slight AU. In which Sherlock's masterfully framed fall contained a fatal error, and he really did plummet to his death. Illustrates John's attempts to fight through the darkened pit of despair and climb back up past this wound to move on. Rated HIGH T for Dark Universe warnings. Happy-ish ending. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Twisted Black by AndromedaMarine**

_A/N: For my readers waiting on chapter 37 of His Greatest Wish—I assure you I have not abandoned it; I'm simply at an HP roadblock and writing for Sherlock is helping to loosen it._

_**One**_

One. Two.

One. Two.

_That's all it takes. Keep going. Keep walking, Watson_. _One foot in front of the other. Soldier on._

The cane squished into the wet ground and popped back up reluctantly, repetitively, boringly, insistent that the good, broken doctor be walking in the other direction. He could see the cab fifty feet away, waiting at the curb beyond the cemetery gate. Sherlock's tombstone glistened black behind him, calling out with a silent voice for him to return.

_Almost there. Don't cry, Watson, keep it together._

Four and a half weeks had already slipped through John's fingers by the time he mustered the courage to return to the grave for the first time since the funeral. He had no wish to burden any of the others with a request for company; in fact, this solitary visit seemed to be all he could handle. The tears waited patiently behind his eyes for that moment to come in the cab when the unwanted memories flashed in front of him. Fortunately the cabbie understood this grief-ridden visit for a grief-plagued man had no room for an intruder, so he had simply asked for their destination and left the radio silent.

They turned smoothly onto Baker Street and slowed to a stop in front of the flat. John absently handed the notes to his quiet driver and struggled to exit the car without tripping over the cane or his own feet.

He didn't know which would be worse: falling down upon exit, or the cabbie trying to help him back up.

When John managed the last stair to 221B, now just _his_ flat, he opened the door only to stop in his tracks. A man stood by the window, looking out, his arms crossed, a great mop of curly, vibrantly black hair atop his head. John didn't need him to turn around to know his identity. But despite the fact he knew this wasn't real, John Watson felt obliged to speak to the specter.

"Sherlock," he acknowledged warily, his cane gripped tightly in one hand, his keys in the other.

The tall figure rotated on the balls of his feet to face John. He inclined his head but didn't speak. John couldn't see his eyes from this distance, but the longer John looked at him, the more he noticed how off something appeared. Sherlock turned back to the window. John stared, unblinking, and then he saw them fade in, gain clarity, manifest. Wings. Great, massive, elegant white wings attached at the shoulder blades, poking through the grey of his suit, rising up past his head by at least a foot, the tips barely brushing the wood behind Sherlock's shoes. The wingspan would be enormous. John's keys and cane clattered to the floor and suddenly he felt himself go dizzy. He leaned on the doorjamb for support.

"Bloody hell," John whispered. "Is this...are you..." he closed his eyes and paused for a good length of time before running a hand over his face and blinking up to find this winged version of his best friend now perched on the arm of his usual chair. "Are you real?"

"That would depend," the beautifully baritone, familiar voice replied softly, gently.

John eyed the wings again, fascinated, curious...scared. "Dep—depend on what?" He swallowed.

But Sherlock dropped his gaze from John and slowly observed the room. "Yes and no."

"Sherlock, what do you—" he stepped forward and reached out with the hand that dropped the keys, but before he could finish his question the angel had gone, disappeared from right in front of him. John didn't move for nearly ten minutes as he stared with wide eyes at the chair Sherlock had just vacated. "I've gone mad," John whispered to himself, running both hands through his hair, before he shook his head and stooped to retrieve his keys and cane from the floor.

* * *

Forty two days later, John stumbled into the flat after a long evening at the bar. He'd only had four beers, but the misery he continually felt compounded the effects and left him unbalanced as ever. He didn't like to think he'd become a drunk; he was still trying to forget the image of a winged Sherlock Holmes standing in his living room. Yet every time that picture formed in his mind John could feel his stomach drop and his heart pound.

_Had it been real?_

John conveniently forgot to mention the apparition to his therapist, sure that it wouldn't happen again. After all, he had just returned from a sad visit to the cemetery. Weren't angels supposed to watch over the ones they love? He avoided the cemetery ever since that day, unwilling to put himself through the pain again. But it didn't matter; the pain stayed with him wherever he went, unceasing, constant, a dull ache in his heart.

He closed the door loudly behind himself and limped into the kitchen, rummaging around for the kettle. After four beers he wasn't exactly thirsty, but the idea of a nice cup of tea with perhaps a biscuit appealed to him. His cupboards were stocked full, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson, and John knew that a modest deposit entered his account on the first of each month. He'd not enquired after the source, because he knew that Mycroft now felt a tad responsible for John's welfare and refused to see his little brother's best friend waste away due to financial troubles. John didn't have the heart or the courage to even speak to Mycroft anymore, not after Sherlock's fall. But he appreciated the help nonetheless, despite how much he felt he didn't deserve any of it.

A few minutes later the kettle began to whistle, and John limped over to pour the boiling water into his mug.

Politely, Sherlock waited for John to relinquish the kettle to the stovetop before speaking. "Hello, John," he whispered softly.

John whirled around, unsteady on his feet, cup of tea forgotten on the counter behind him. "Sherlock?" he gasped, eyes wide, jaw gaping. "I thought—I thought—"

"Hmm," Sherlock replied, his wings rustling as he turned to sit in his chair. "Indeed it has been a while."

John stared, gulping for a good-sized breath of air.

Sherlock settled into the chair, his wings folded neatly into his back, fingers steepled. "Do stop, your resemblance to a fish quite detracts from the usual cadence."

John slammed his eyes shut and rubbed them, hard. "Are. You. Real," he demanded before opening up to look at him. The tea remained forgotten as John rounded the kitchen table to approach this strange vision.

"Yes, and no," Sherlock repeated.

"Explain!" John almost bellowed. "You're dead! I saw you fall, I saw your body carted off—I identified you in the morgue, Sherlock, I was a pallbearer at your _funeral_—"

Sherlock sighed. "Truly I am not alive if that is the answer you seek."

"Brilliant. I really am seeing things," John lamented before sinking into his own chair across from Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned. "No." Again, John stared at him, unable to help himself from glancing up at the wings, which Sherlock didn't fail to observe. "Magnificent, aren't they? They surely would have been useful two and a half months ago—but sadly not everything goes according to plan."

John steadied his breathing by using a technique Sherlock himself had taught him. "So you're real, but dead. How can you be real? Aren't you just a figment of my imagination?"

"No, John, I am not," Sherlock answered in his soft baritone. "Surely the wings are a clue?"

John breathed hard through his nose. "You're an angel, then?"

"Indeed," Sherlock expounded.

John glared at him. "What gives you the right to show up like this and get my bloody hopes up that you're coming back?"

"Nothing 'gives me the right,' other than the fact you have not even begun to move on and seeing your life go wasted concerns me."

"You're dead," John repeated pointedly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, the wings swaying behind him. John could see the muscles in the top of the scapulars and the marginal coverts of the wings ripple. "And you are most certainly alive. I should hope you would want to stay that way."

"You know what, Sherlock? I'm not so sure I want to. You're gone, I have nothing left here, and the _little_ hiccup that you're actually, really, absolutely dead kind of makes me want to throw in the towel." John got to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen to retrieve his lonely tea. He downed it in three gulps before turning around to look at Sherlock again. He now stood only a few feet away, his wings flexing in the still air. "This isn't fair."

"Life never is," Sherlock replied, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

"What's—" John searched for the words, and unable to find sufficient ones to his feelings, he continued, "Am I the only one who can see you? Have you appeared to the others?"

Sherlock's gaze drifted across the room like it had all those weeks ago. "I would be surprised if they walked in and could immediately see me," he murmured. "It took _you_ a _month_ to notice my presence."

John gaped again. "You've been here this whole time? What about six weeks ago? You just disappeared when I was talking to you!"

"Six weeks ago did you trust what you saw? Did you believe it was real as it happened?"

"Of course not! I thought I was hallucinating, which wouldn't bloody surprise me after everything you've put me through!"

"Yet you've questioned that belief ever since. You wanted me to be real."

"I—" John stopped mid-sentence, his eyes welling up with tears. "Oh God yes, of course I wanted you to be real, Sherlock, I'd give anything to have you back."

Sherlock gave John a sad smile. "So would I, however the rules are very strict and that particular miracle has only been performed four times in all of history. I cannot return to a flesh prison."

"What am I supposed to do?" John pleaded.

Sherlock wondered if he could touch John. Sitting in the chair hadn't been a problem, supporting his infinitesimal angelic weight effortlessly. But before he reached out to try, he thought better of it. "Haven't you figured it out?" he asked, watching John's face for a reaction. But John just looked up at him, tears starting to drip down his cheeks, his eyes red and sad. "No?"

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You need to let me go, John."

At this, John let out a sob. "No, I can't, it's too soon—"

"I know," Sherlock soothed. "But you need to live, John, you need to be vibrant and beautiful and scarred, you need to become more than what you were, better, stronger. You need to be brilliant…for us. Take your time, my dear Watson, but take it. Eventually you will wake up and it will hurt less, the ache will be duller, the pain but a memory."

"You're wrong," John argued. "You never knew what you meant to me, what you did for me, how you _changed_ me, Sherlock. I can't go back to how it was before. I'd die before I went back to that life."

At this the angel in front of him frowned. "Why do you feel you have nothing to live for?" he asked in the lowest voice he could muster.

The rumble of Sherlock's tone flowed through John and briefly soothed his pain. But the question caused new tears to spring up. "How can you not know?"

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, his eyebrows pinched together in realization. "Oh, John…"

"Do you know how much it hurts? To wake up every day knowing your best friend killed himself without any reason or warning? Do you know how much I want to join you?" He said these last words with difficulty, choking them out between sobs. He staggered past Sherlock and half-threw himself into Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock followed John over to the chair but didn't sit. Instead he began to pace slowly, vaguely aware of John's gaze following the graceful motion of his wings. "There is still so much that you do not know," he muttered. "Do you realize the impact it would have? Your death? The suffering that you'd put Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly through? Mycroft?"

"Did you?" John shot back, angry and incredulous.

Sherlock sighed. "You…you do not understand. Not yet. It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"Now I don't know for myself, but jumping off a building four stories high usually ends with the jumper cracking his bloody head open and dying," John retorted scathingly.

"John, please just listen!"

He crossed his arms and sank further down into Sherlock's chair, anger etched into the lines of his face.

"The suicide was supposed to be faked. But something went wrong, something didn't happen that was supposed to, and…and here I am. With wings." His voice grew bitter at the end.

"You expect me to believe that you accidentally killed yourself while trying to fake killing yourself?"

Sherlock nodded, and for the first time since appearing to John his expression gave away unadulterated regret.

"Are you solid enough for me to punch you?" John asked, his tone a hair lighter, but still laced with resentment. Sherlock's silent heart gave a little leap.

"I'm…I'm not sure, really," Sherlock replied, coming to a halt in front of John. He looked down at his living, breathing best friend. "I thought I might be, but I can't pick up the violin." He'd tried that after a week of being dead, hoping to slide the bow across the strings and pull a sweet, sad melody from the wood. But all for naught.

John snorted, but he didn't laugh. "Of course. Still can't give me what I want, even in death, you big sod." His lips pulled into a tight line and he glared up at Sherlock. "Why are you here?"

Surprised and a bit hurt, Sherlock took a few steps back and settled into John's chair. "To help you," he insisted.

"A lot of good you've done."

"It's been more than two months. You've shown no signs of moving on, John, not one!"

"I don't want to move on."

Sherlock gazed sadly at John, the oft skirted emotion plain on his chiseled face. "It's better to live than to die and wish for life. Trust me."

"You just don't get it, do you?" John asked wearily. The clock now read past one in the morning. "Going through this…it's not just a struggle, Sherlock. It's hell."

"It will get better—"

"No, it won't. And I know it won't because you were the most important person in my life. And you just fell out of it without telling me why." He stood and stretched, yawning. "Now, unless you're going to get that out in the open at this particular moment, I'm going to bed. You've given me enough material for a few nightmares tonight."

With that John left the angel Sherlock Holmes standing in his living room, his exquisite wings forming a lonely silhouette.

* * *

Eighty seven days later, after spotty and short, but silent, visits from the angel Sherlock, John found himself in a deep pit. He hadn't left the flat in a couple weeks, barely surviving if not for the pity-ridden deliveries Mrs. Hudson had taken upon herself to make sure John didn't starve. Empty glass bottles littered the kitchen counters and table, the floor by the rubbish bin, his dresser in his room, the coffee table. He didn't know how to deal with the angel, because nobody else could see him.

Usually he stood by the window, gazing out for several minutes at a time, his wings still and beautiful. John would watch him until he inevitably faded away, never speaking.

He popped the top off another bottle of beer and took a swig. Sherlock's form flickered for a moment before he faded completely in, ever staring out the window. John sat in Sherlock's chair and stared forward, unmoving, as his sluggish thoughts played through the last conversation he had with the angel.

John always asked him the same question, but never received a reply. "Why did you leave me?" John inquired for the thousandth time.

Sherlock slowly glided from the window to John's usual chair. Before sitting down, however, he stretched his wings out to their full breadth, causing John to inhale sharply. The distance from tip to tip reached just over twelve feet, the width of the wings over half of Sherlock's height. The whiteness shimmered in the shadows of the flat, as it was nearing midnight and the only light in the room came from some streetlamps outside.

"You've never done _that_ before," John commented in drunken awe.

"You've just never seen me when I do," Sherlock replied. He folded the wings back in and sat.

John watched him through bloodshot eyes. "Why won't you tell me why you jumped?" he implored again, a desperate edge to his voice.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and leaned back into the armchair. "John...I gave my life for yours." He paused for John to comment or ask for something—anything—but he just stared, the bottle clenched so tightly his knuckles were turning white. So Sherlock continued. "Moriarty had men ready and waiting to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I did not take that fall. Molly and Mycroft helped with the preparations and plans for faking it...so you can imagine how they reacted when they realized something had gone terribly wrong."

_Well,_ John thought, _this certainly explains why Molly hasn't come by or spoken to me, and why Mycroft is paying my bills..._

"I didn't even know something had failed until I found myself looking on the scene—seeing you rush forward to find any sign of survival...feeling these perched upon my back." He gestured to the wings. "Please believe me, John; I had no intention to truly leave you."

John didn't speak for several minutes. In the meantime, Sherlock simply sat and observed his only friend, his brows furrowed, fingers steepled, his wings still. When he did speak, his voice betrayed strain and heartbreak…but by some unseen strength he was able to keep his voice low and steady, unwavering. "If I had one last thing to say to you, if I knew I was going to die…if I could just give you one morsel of hope to cling to…can you deduce what I'd say, Sherlock? Can you?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock slowly shook his beautiful head. "You know me, John. And you've always known that I do not fully understand sentiment."

John looked down, his tongue between his teeth. "I would tell you how much you meant to me. How much I loved you. How you were the best, most complicated, most _infuriating_ and wonderful thing to come into my life. And I'd tell you to keep strong and continue being great, because you don't know how to do anything else. You would be…my last thought. Not Harry, not my parents…you. Because I wouldn't lie to you, Sherlock, not in my final moments. I wouldn't keep it bottled up, hoping that by some miraculous happenstance I could get a chance later… And you couldn't even give me that." John pinched the bridge of his nose, tears cascading down his cheeks, the bottle of beer dropped, its contents leaking into the floorboards.

Sherlock reached out, forgetting that he couldn't touch John.

"Answer me one thing. And if you can't…" he left the statement hanging, knowing Sherlock could deduce the rest for himself. "Tell me the truth, Sherlock Holmes. Do you really, truly, honestly believe that anything short of a miracle from God himself could pull me past the pain of losing you?"

Sherlock sat in silence for a moment before dropping his gaze to the floor between them. "No."

"Then it seems we're at a crossroads. There are only two things that could possibly come from this. One, you cannot give me, and the other you do not want. So tell me, which do you choose? Because to tell you the truth I don't know how much longer I can go without picking for myself, and we both know which one I'd take."

"John, I would move heaven and earth—"

"Then move them!" John burst angrily, his hands clenched into fists. "For the sake of all that is good and precious to you, _move them_."

Pain coursed through Sherlock's silent heart with more strength than any fear he'd felt in life. "I can't," he whispered sadly. "I don't have the power or the authority to do that, as _much_ as I want to. John. I cannot."

"Then go."

"What...?"

"Just go. The agony I'm feeling intensifies whenever I look at you, so just go. I don't have the strength to deal with this right now."

So the angel Sherlock rose to his feet, his features drawn in sadness. "I never really left you, John. I'll always be here if you need me."

John shook his head. "No, you won't, because what I need is to be able to touch you."

Sherlock faded away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Twisted Black by AndromedaMarine**

_**Two**_

A hundred and eighty-nine more days inched by with John slowly but constantly retreating in on himself. Many days he didn't leave his bedroom, actively avoiding the living area where he knew Sherlock's presence would be prowling. It didn't occur to him that Sherlock could materialize in his bedroom as well, but the angel decided not to push it and gave John his ill-deserved space.

As it happened, on the morning of the one hundred-and-ninetieth day, Mrs. Hudson quietly pushed open the door to 221B with a bag of groceries resting on her good hip. She busied herself with putting the food away and clearing the littering of bottles from the counter and rubbish bin. When she looked up to sadly sweep the room, she clutched at her heart when she felt it skip a couple beats.

The tall form of Sherlock, wings and all, stood by the window, the violin held under his chin, the bow hanging limp in his right hand. He lifted the bow and slid it gently across the strings, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head briefly to make sure she wasn't just seeing or hearing it all. The soft string music seemed to flow in eddies through the flat, speaking of sadness and pain and regret, of unrequited love and a bitter departure. Martha Hudson stared in reverence at this winged beauty, the bottles half-put away and forgotten in the bin behind her.

"Sherlock?" she asked timidly, still clutching at her chest.

The angel turned slowly, never relenting on the violin, and smiled at her before closing his eyes and losing himself to the instrument.

Mrs. Hudson didn't even hear John stumble down the stairs in response to the music. He lurched past Mrs. Hudson without giving her a glance, his drunken focus on Sherlock's graceful figure. "You told me you weren't solid, you righteous bastard!" John yelled angrily as he reached for Sherlock.

"Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when John wrenched Sherlock about by the arm, disrupting the smooth music, his wings swaying behind him as he turned. She jumped when John's fist connected with the angel's right cheekbone, sending Sherlock staggering backwards, his arms outstretched (still holding the violin) and his wings flapping in order to keep him on balance.

"You said you weren't solid," John snarled again, his fist poised for another blow.

Sherlock regained his balance with the help of his wings and took care in setting the violin back on its perch. "I wasn't, not at the time you asked," he replied, lifting one hand to test his cheek. He gently pressed it and hissed in pain; evidently being dead didn't cancel out the effects of a left hook. "I've been practicing every time I visit, but since you just stick in your room you never saw when I got close." His aquamarine eyes locked with John's. "It wasn't easy. I had to argue with Gabriel and Raphael before they would even let me petition Seraphiel."

John didn't lower his raised left fist. "Oh, poor dead Sherlock, he had to argue with archangels and seraphim," he spat in fury, and both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson knew that John was still half-asleep and on the tail end of drunkenness at seven in the morning.

"John, look…you can touch me now," Sherlock whispered, reaching out to cover John's clenched hand.

His breath caught at the contact, and as much as Mrs. Hudson wanted to stay and ask Sherlock exactly why he had two enormous feathery appendages, she felt like an intruder on the moment of John and Sherlock's physical reunion. So she took a long look at him and then forced herself back down to her own flat, making a mental note to add a dash of brandy to her tea.

"You're—you're…" John couldn't form a proper sentence. "Dead—"

Sherlock smiled at John, still holding onto his hand, which had relaxed under his touch. "Yes, but I'm here," he murmured before stepping straight into John's personal space to wrap his long arms around the slowly-sobering doctor. John fell into the embrace limply before slowly lifting his arms to hug Sherlock back. His hands brushed under soft feathers before grabbing fistfuls of the back of his grey suit jacket, his head tucking neatly under Sherlock's chin. Tears streamed from his eyes into Sherlock's chest. "Though I cannot be with you for much longer," he whispered to the top of John's head.

"Just shut up," John replied stiffly and muffled, "and let me hug you." The head rush of finally being able to touch Sherlock after almost a year seemed to chase away more of the alcohol in his system, and the two men just stood there for several minutes, swaying only slightly, as John kept the younger man in a tight embrace, his face buried into the front of Sherlock's shirt. "I wish we could've done this a long time ago," John mumbled. Sherlock's response came in a tightening of his arms. "I was getting so close, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled at this admission and pulled back from John enough to look down into his eyes. "No…" he breathed in terrified realization, digging his fingers into John's shoulder blades, his eyes widening. "No, you can't—"

But John grinned up at him with wet cheeks. "I don't have to anymore, now do I? You're here, solid, and I'm not the only one who can see you anymore, this is brilliant—"

"_John_."

Sherlock's tone made the former army doctor halt and glance up in confusion. "What?"

"I cannot stay like this," he croaked weakly. "Seraphiel has only granted me a month."

"I—I don't—I don't understand—" John stammered, sliding his hands to the front of Sherlock's frame and clutching at the fabric of his royal purple dress shirt.

For the first time since Sherlock's appearance in the window nearly ten and a half months ago, the angel wept. "I have a month before I must go, for good. Seraphiel was reluctant to even give me a week, John…it is rare for an angel to return to earth for final farewells, and when it happens it usually only lasts for a day, nothing more."

John's jaw clenched, and he remained silent.

"I will not see you waste away."

Brown eyes met aquamarine and both filled with tears. "I already have," John bit out painfully. "Why shouldn't I just end it all right now to be with you forever? Why should I wrestle another _month_ of torture before I go through with the inevitable?"

Sherlock stood, speechless, still holding tight to John.

"Why shouldn't I just end it now?"

Sherlock moved his hands and squeezed John's shoulders firmly. "Do you really believe I want that?" John tried to twist out of the angel's grip, but couldn't. "Do you think I went to all this effort and took all this time just to watch you take your own life? NO!"

John struggled again but only succeeded in making Sherlock's grip stronger. He could feel bruises forming along the ridges of his shoulders, but dropped his gaze and didn't say anything.

"You are far too important to this earth, John, to me!"

"Name one thing I did that was so important to you, the great Sherlock Holmes," John said angrily to Sherlock's chest, avoiding looking up.

Sherlock's features softened. "You made me human. You showed me what it meant to love and be loved, John, you gave me renewed purpose in life."

"Then why did you throw it all away?" John asked in a quiet whisper, letting his shimmering eyes wander back up to Sherlock's sharp, angular face.

"To give you a chance to live."

"Why is it so terrible that I don't want it? Why is it so _unacceptable_ that I would rather die to be with you than live alone? Or do you not want me there?"

Sherlock sighed and dropped his head to rest it against John's. "This isn't just about me, John. This is about both of us. I will not be selfish and be the reason for your death. I don't deserve to be reunited with you so quickly, and the others do not deserve the burden of losing another man they care about. You are a physician, John, you know what the repercussions of suicide are."

"And I also know that I don't give a damn about anything anymore, except for you." He gave a great huff and moved his left hand to reach behind Sherlock and touch the wing. "If our positions were reversed…would you be so eager to continue living without your best and only friend?"

Sherlock answered with his own question: "Would you be so lost in death to wish that I die too? Or would you understand that life is a precious gift, and taking it from yourself makes you no better than the men we used to pursue?"

"You told me once you weren't a hero—"

"And I'm not."

"Then for the love of God, stop trying to_ be one!_ I have missed you…with more than what I am, I have missed you. So please don't tell me that you don't want more than anything for us to be together again."

Sherlock had not anticipated that John would be so dead set on finding some way to be reunited with him. He didn't know what else to use as an argument against his best friend's path towards suicide, so he chose instead to answer John's question. "If I hadn't jumped, John, Moriarty would've had you killed. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would have died because I didn't. But…you know this. I've already told you all that." He didn't release John's shoulders, and John still had the soft feathers of Sherlock's wings against his palms. "You keep asking why I left you, why I jumped, why, why, why! But you haven't seen! You haven't observed, like you should have. You haven't _listened_. If I had not jumped, John, I would NOT have been able to live with myself knowing I took the coward's path and that the fruit of my cowardice was the deaths of the only three people who have ever shown me any kindness and love. I am not a selfish man, John Watson. And the fact that you still draw breath into your lungs proves that." Sherlock finally released John's shoulders and took a step backwards, out of range of the doctor. "So no. I would not be so _eager_ to live knowing that your death was _my_ fault. This was never your fight. And you should not have to bear the pain of it...even though you do. If you were dead and I alive I would want nothing more than to take my place beside you." He fell silent, his eyes boring into John's. The silence stretched for almost a minute before Sherlock broke it again. "But if you asked that I live…that I carry on our legacy for both of us…I would. I would honor your wish, John. And as _much_ as it would pain me to live like that, if you asked me to…I would."

John crossed his arms and sank into the sofa, his expression wholly unreadable.

"And I had hoped you would do the same for me," Sherlock uttered, his wings fluttering a bit to shake off the tension in his muscles. "I had hoped that my wishes would count for something with you, after all we've been through."

John's arms loosened and he patted the spot next to him, signaling for Sherlock to sit with him. When he did, John didn't move, just facing forward. "They do." However, when Sherlock relaxed marginally at this, he continued. "But it doesn't lessen my want for it, and it doesn't lift me out of depression. And in all honesty at this point I don't know if I'm strong enough to let you go." He looked over to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I don't know how to move on from this."

"I have a month to help you try," Sherlock replied. "So please…let me."

John gazed intently at Sherlock for several minutes, his hands fidgeting in his lap, his breathing deep and regular for once. "This…this won't be easy, for me," John finally said, and he saw Sherlock sag in relief at his answer. "Especially if you're going to be here."

"I am prepared for anything," Sherlock answered immediately.

John's brow furrowed and Sherlock saw a blossom of sadness in his eyes. "Are you, though?" He made a jerky motion with his hand, as if he meant to reach out and grab one of Sherlock's spindly limbs but stopped after thinking it through. "Are you prepared for the possibility of me not being strong enough?"

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from resting his hand on John's shoulder. He could feel the heat from John's body seeping through the fabric of the t-shirt he slept in. When he spoke, his soft baritone instilled a sense of calm deep in John's chest. "You still have many things to do in this life, John. Lives to save, people to meet, a family to build."

John snorted. "D'you really think that after you I could go back to dating women and pretend that half of me isn't missing?"

A frown crossed over Sherlock's features.

"For such a brilliant man-turned-angel, you really are quite thick." When Sherlock simply stared at him, his mouth hanging fractionally open, the gears in his head turning faster than imaginable, John took pity. "You were my life, Sherlock Holmes. You snuck into every corner of it, and as much as that should make me angry…it doesn't. It made me happy. After Harry, after Afghanistan…after I had no more constants, Sherlock, you became my greatest one."

"I…"

John reached up to where Sherlock's hand still rested on his shoulder and pulled it down into his lap. "You still haven't figured it out, then? Why you dyin—leaving was the _worst_ possible thing you could've done to me?"

"John, I—"

But John cut him off with a squeeze to his hand. "No. Don't say it. Not now. Not until we _both_ have wings."

A look of terror passed into the detective's eyes.

"It might be a month, or a year, or ten years, Sherlock…just please. Don't say it yet."

"How do you know what I'm going to say?" Sherlock asked in a small voice, still exhibiting fear over the implications of John's request.

John smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. "You wouldn't be here if it wasn't true. Or, if you were here anyways, I wouldn't be able to see you if you didn't know. I've been protected by angels on the battlefield before," he admitted. "Men who I'd lost on the table but stuck around to make sure I'd be able to continue saving soldiers. You're just the first I've seen for longer than a few seconds who has wings. You mean more to me than all of the soldiers I lost in the war. So much more." John squeezed Sherlock's hand again and moved to take it between both of his. "I can't promise that after all this I'll be able to come out with a new lease on life."

Sherlock stared at his hand enclosed in John's. He almost marveled at the sensation of touch; after over eleven months of being too insubstantial to even prod his violin, this newfound ability to have contact with his best friend meant more to him than all the angels in heaven. "You need to move," he blurted out quite suddenly. When John started to pull his hands away from Sherlock's with a hurt expression marring his face, the detective placed his other on top of John's. "No, I didn't mean like that. You need to move flats. This one is too full of memories for you; that has to be the first step."

Surprisingly, John agreed. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Donate the laboratory equipment to St. Bart's—Molly will find a use for it."

John gave a small chuckle. "You're less observant than you claim," he commented. "Mrs. Hudson gave it to Molly months ago." _Besides, I wouldn't be able to go near Bart's without freezing up._

Sherlock snapped his head up to look in the kitchen. Sure enough, the microscope was missing, the test tubes and Petri dishes all gone. He huffed. "Well then I suppose the next thing I should mention is that Mycroft is hiding my will because he's still in denial."

The doctor's eyes widened. "You had a will?"

"Of course. Even before I met you I'd always suspected I'd die young, though after our introduction I didn't want to." Sherlock tested the contact between their hands by interlacing their fingers. John didn't object, so Sherlock continued to speak. "I revised it for propriety's sake before—well, before all this happened." He purposefully made his wings twitch. "I left everything to you."

John's hand tensed in his.

"And I mean everything: all my belongings, finances …my inheritance of the Holmes estate. I instructed Mycroft to continue funding you as if your bank account were mine. You will not be in want of money for the rest of your life."

John recognized that he wouldn't be able to do anything about this; though he didn't want any charity from the Holmes family, the fact that Sherlock had felt him suitable enough to place as sole inheritor in his will prompted a small sting of tears in his eyes. "You didn't have to do that," he whispered.

"I told you, I am prepared for anything. I prepared for the possibility that my grand plan might fail."

"You didn't have to put me in your will," John stated softly. He tried to look anywhere but at Sherlock's face, but found himself drawn to the sharp, angular beauty of it.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock insisted. "Besides…who would you have listed in yours?"

John had to give him that. He had an incomplete Pages document on his laptop with a few lines that made it clear in the event of his death, Sherlock Holmes would inherit everything. He smiled. "I put you in mine a few months after we met." He frowned. "Now of course I suppose it'll have to go to Mycroft."

Sherlock made a face and gave an undignified snort. "Oh, please," he scoffed, "leave it to Lestrade and Molly, or Harry, if you've gotten over your tiffs with her."

John nodded, but wanted to move past this sensitive point. "So. You've left me all your things. What of it do you want me to keep?"

"Oh, keep the Stradivarius and the skull. And take anything in my room that you could not see yourself living without." He paused for a few beats before murmuring as an afterthought: "I know they mean quite a bit to you. Sentiment." John didn't need Sherlock to clarify what he meant. The violin and skull were the two most representative artifacts Sherlock had left behind.

"Is there anything you don't want me to keep?"

Sherlock hesitated, suspecting that John would likely protest to the next two requests. "Don't—don't keep my clothing—if at all possible distribute it to my Homeless Network. And I want you to leave the furniture here. Mycroft will finance the furnishings of a new flat, and don't skimp on your options. Make a new home."

Again, John showed surprising acquiescence by dipping his head and flexing his fingers within Sherlock's grasp.

"You are taking my requests to heart," Sherlock observed, and for some reason he felt his throat tighten involuntarily. He didn't know why this astonished him so much; the mere act of appearing like this to John in the first place spoke more than anything they'd ever exchanged during his lifetime.

John absently ran his thumb along Sherlock's slender hand. "Yes. To the best of my ability I will do whatever you ask, Sherlock. I know it means a great deal to you."

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, and instead of speaking he withdrew his hand from John's grasp and wrapped his arms around the doctor's shoulders.


	3. Chapter 3

**Twisted Black by AndromedaMarine**

_**Three**_

The doctor spent the rest of the day texting Mycroft and moving his and Sherlock's things into boxes. Granted, with Sherlock's gracious help the process took half as long as it would have otherwise, and it was already creeping past noon when John remembered that Mrs. Hudson had briefly seen Sherlock that morning. Although John wanted rather selfishly to keep Sherlock to himself for as long as he could, it wasn't in his nature to do something of the sort. So he paused in the middle of organizing a book box and squinted at the door.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked from the desk, where he could be heard rustling through old case files and deciding which ones would be interesting enough for John to blog about. He lifted one folder and opened it, peering at the contents with scrutiny.

"It's just…well, Mrs. Hudson saw you this morning. I forgot about it till just now, but don't you think she wants to talk to you?"

"Yes, I imagine she would. Go and fetch her, then." Sherlock discarded the folder and picked up another.

John eyed him. "You won't disappear?"

Sherlock glanced over and smirked. "No, in fact I will prepare some tea for the three of us."

John felt stable enough to laugh at this, if just for a moment, before he got to his feet and went to find Mrs. Hudson. As he descended the staircase he heard Sherlock pad from the desk to the kitchen, and the faint clink of china drifted down to John's ears. The army doctor felt the corners of his lips quirk up in response to this, and the smile remained as he knocked softly on his landlady's door.

It took her a few moments with her bad hip to come open it, but when saw John standing there with a small grin on his face she clutched at her heart again. "Is he—is he really—oh, John," she stuttered, and then John stepped forward to pull Mrs. Hudson into a much-needed hug.

"Yes, he's really up there."

"But he's got wings!"

At this John's smile faltered, and he stepped back from Mrs. Hudson, keeping his hands on her slight shoulders. "He's an angel, Mrs. Hudson. He's only here to help me move on." His voice had dropped to a quiet, sad tone. "Would you like to talk to him?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, patting her hands on the waist of her dress.

John smiled again and led Mrs. Hudson up to the flat where Sherlock had just poured the steaming water into three teacups.

At the sounds of two sets of feet climbing the staircase, Sherlock turned to face the entrance, rustling his wings a bit in anticipation. Mrs. Hudson was first through the door, and she stopped so suddenly at the sight of him that John almost ran into her. She didn't speak, only stood there with one hand resting over her heart and the other drawn up to cover her mouth. Her eyes spoke volumes, more than they had that morning at the surprise visit.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock acknowledged kindly. He held out his hand to her, and she hesitated before taking it. Sherlock drew her into an embrace and didn't mind that he could feel her tears seeping through his royally purple shirt. She clung to him weakly, her veiny hands clutching at the back of his suit jacket, brushing underneath the feathers bordering his spine.

John hovered in the doorway, his eyes filling at the sight. He quickly brushed the drops away, and slid past the angel and the landlady to pick up one of the mugs on the counter. He then proceeded to carefully ignore his companions and, tea in hand, John Watson drifted over to look out the window. The sky gloomed grey overhead, threatening rain, and for a brief moment John wondered what it would be like solving cases with a winged Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered the sharp, cold air at the cemetery the day he'd come home to find the angel standing at this very window, the chills that traveled down his spine as he limped away from the tombstone, and the thin, small, wet blades of grass that were just beginning to poke through the soil covering the casket containing his friend. As John watched the bustle of Baker Street below the flat he felt a hand tightening and twisting over his heart, and though he knew Sherlock stood only a few paces away, it still felt like a deep, dark, abyss separated their souls. And, indeed, there was.

The inquisitive voice of Mrs. Hudson asking why there were so many boxes littering the floor pulled John from his black thoughts. He turned to face the other two, and took a sip of the tea. "I can't stay here," he said softly to his elderly landlady when she came over to grasp his free hand with both of hers. "It's too…" he glanced up at Sherlock, who stood by the kitchen table with wings neatly folded and his hands clasped gently around his own cup. "It's too painful. He's here to help me move on, and I can't do that if I stay in a place where everything reminds me of him."

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm and gave him a sad smile. "Thank you for letting me say goodbye," she told him softly.

The three tenants of 221 Baker Street visited for another hour, each one delicately nursing the tea Sherlock had kindly made.

* * *

It took two days for John to meet with Mycroft and begin the move. Sherlock stayed at Baker Street during this process, and retreated into his old room when John told him that Lestrade was coming to help him get boxes over to the new, smaller flat in Bromley, across the Thames. John asked whether or not Greg would be able to see Sherlock, and though Sherlock knew he would, he shook his head no. It wasn't time for Lestrade to see him.

By week's end the boxes were moved and unpacked, the Stradivarius on its stand by the window with the binder of sheet music perched carefully beside it. The skull now resided on the mantle of John's new, larger fireplace, and a collection of old knives from Sherlock's bedroom were now in a display case above the sofa. Small reminders of his former life, and not so much that every glance across the flat caused his eyes to well up.

When John last stepped from 221B Baker Street with Sherlock beside him and Martha Hudson waving goodbye, Mycroft's black limousine pulled up to the curb. John and Sherlock climbed in, Sherlock more carefully because his wings were far more and larger than the limo was meant to transport. No one else sat in the back, and the divider between the driver and the passenger seating was already up. John wondered if Mycroft had cameras installed back here, and whether or not Sherlock in all his winged glory would appear on the footage. He decided he didn't care either way, and before long found himself leaning up against Sherlock's sturdy shoulder. The detective gently lifted his arm a bit, and John was able to fall into a half-embrace and close his eyes. Neither man said a word when his hand found Sherlock's.

John made tea for them both at the Bromley flat.

"When do you want to see Mycroft and Lestrade?" he asked quietly, setting the steaming cup in front of his dead best friend.

Sherlock remained silent for a few beats before replying, "Tomorrow. But it will be the only time. Every day after that will be ours, and only ours."

Mycroft stood stiffly with his umbrella for several seconds, staring at his winged brother, before dropping it and giving Sherlock the first hug they'd shared in years. The elder Holmes tried to apologize for keeping both the will and his involvement in Sherlock's grand plan from the army doctor, but John only shook his head in silent forgiveness, knowing that at month's end the will would be executed and since the angel had already divulged Mycroft's participation and subsequent remorse, apologies were entirely unnecessary.

Lestrade asked if it was all a great big joke at first, but when Sherlock deduced that he'd spent the past few weeks living with Molly and taking extra shifts at the Yard to work his way back up to where he'd been during the Reichenbach Fall, Greg had a hard time finding his voice. He spent a good deal longer visiting than Mycroft had, and when it came time for him to leave he told John he was almost done clearing Sherlock's name, and that if he wanted a post at the Yard he need only ask. Sherlock did not pull back when Greg drew the angel into a hug farewell.

* * *

The month drifted by on slow wings. They were able to walk through Bromley without anyone noticing John's winged companion, and they would sit for long hours in the park talking about life, or not talking at all. They spent one afternoon on the floor in the flat, John running his hands over Sherlock's wings, cataloguing every detail, every texture, every feeling in his own crude version of Sherlock's Mind Palace. When he moved on from the wings to run one hand and then both through Sherlock's dark, springy curls, Sherlock found himself enjoying the sensation, and felt he should return the favor. John did not object.

He didn't pretend to ignore the look in Sherlock's eyes when John decided to catalogue Sherlock's exact scent. "If I'm going to survive this, I'm going to need to remember you," he whispered as he held Sherlock in a tight embrace, his nose pressed against the smooth skin of the angel's neck. He breathed in deep, clinging to the detective with a desperate strength, unable and unwilling to hide his anguish over his impending second loss. He knew the coming months would not be kind to him.

John slept with Sherlock wrapped around him, safely cocooned in his arms and wings, neither wishing nor asking for more than what it was.

"You're my oxygen," he mumbled into Sherlock's ear at one point, during a period of several hours where John tried to make more than a few convincing arguments that Sherlock staying would be better than any alternative, and refused to spend more than a few seconds without some part of the winged detective against his body. "I need you like I need air." Sherlock found it hard to remain both silent and composed during those hours.

Sherlock fought with himself not to give in to the urge to flit back up to heaven and bargain with Seraphiel for another month, another year, another lifetime in which he could be with and protect John from the demons and devils of the day Sherlock fell. He drew comfort from the nights spent with John held against his chest, committing the memories to John's annex of his Mind Palace so he could immerse himself in them during the coming long months and years when John would be living on without him. He wondered how quickly time would pass for him in heaven as it inched along on earth, and whether the years for John would feel like years to him. He suspected it might feel like eons instead, as any time apart from John Watson made his silent heart ache.

John promised he would only visit the grave on the anniversaries and birthdays, but they both knew he would come after nightmares and danger nights too.

With a week to go, John cried and yelled that it wasn't fair. He raged and eventually collapsed beneath the Stradivarius, and after Sherlock manhandled him onto the sofa John spent the rest of that evening floating along with the music Sherlock so expertly drew from the smooth wood and taut strings of the violin. He played the last complete composition he'd written while alive, the only one that he'd written entirely for John because it was the only way he felt he could express his emotion without fumbling for words.

The two men—angel and mortal—spent the last night of Sherlock's sojourn holding each other on John's bed. John wept silently, fighting sleep, forgetting that he was meant to be letting go of this beautiful creature and stay alive for the both of them. He could feel his heart twisting and breaking inside his chest.

Sherlock tipped his head down and gently kissed John's forehead for the first, last, and only time before he drew the older man tighter against his body and whispered in his ear, his voice low and rumbling with love and regret, "Goodbye, my John."

When he faded away at Big Ben's stroke of midnight, John curled up with his arms wrapped around his stomach, and cried himself to sleep for the last time.

* * *

Six years passed during which John held a small but paid position with New Scotland Yard and DI Lestrade. Six years of slowly easing heartache, increasingly infrequent visits to the cemetery, occasional meetings with Mycroft, and weekly cups of tea with Mrs. Hudson on Sunday afternoons. They would reminisce about the fleeting month with their beautiful, angular angel, sighing at the end of their memories, and never letting a tear fall because they both knew Sherlock didn't want that. He felt as if even though the angel Sherlock Holmes had long since faded away into nothingness, his presence still lingered at his shoulder, guiding him on the path to renewal, and gently easing his mind from nightmares when the sun went to sleep.

Yet with all his steps forward, John Watson smiled when he watched his doctor step into the examining room with a bleak expression on his face.

_I can go home._

"I'm sorry, John." Dr. Ferrimey spoke softly.

_It's all right. It's all fine. I can go home now._

"Well? How long do I have?" _Should I even pretend to be distraught?_

Ferrimey sat heavily on the stool. He flipped open the folder and simply handed it to his former colleague. "If we start treatment today, there's a chance you'll respond favorably. But this is a rare one, John. I've only ever seen a handful of cases, and none were caught this late."

John read the report with a doctor's eye, picking out the words and mildly wondering what he'd tell Martha and Greg the next day. He closed the folder and handed it back. John clasped his hands together. "We both know your 'chance' means less than ten percent," he chided.

Ferrimey rubbed a hand over his face. "You're still young, John."

At this, he snorted. "Petyr, I'm just shy of fifty. Look me in the eye and tell me that every other patient with this was older than I am now."

John's doctor looked away and sighed again in surrender. "When do you want to start the chemo?"

"I don't," John replied simply. He watched Petyr's face morph in confusion.

"You don't—John, what?"

John shrugged. "I've been stumbling along for seven years, Petyr, waiting for an excuse, for a chance to go back home." Petyr swallowed, and opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him off. "So, how long?"

"At the best, six months. At the worst…John, you're sick. At the worst you'll be gone in a month. You need to be staying with someone…someone who can bring you in once you can't handle it by yourself. It will get bad, John."

"Only for some," John said mildly. "All I ask is that once Mycroft brings me in give me whatever you need to in order to make it as painless as possible. I'm not frightened by this, Petyr. I've been living on borrowed time for the past six years anyway." John had never told Petyr Ferrimey of the month with his angel—only that for a period of time after his best friend's death he'd been so very close to following Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John," Petyr repeated after he stood and rested a comforting hand on his patient's left shoulder.

John looked up at him, the hint of a smile on his lips. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Petyr."

The doctor gave him one last, long look, and then left the room.

* * *

Seven weeks later Mycroft found John in one of the bathrooms of Holmes Manor, clinging to the toilet, pale, shaking, and thin. Mycroft saw the red tint in the vomit, and knew the time had come. He wordlessly helped John stand and clean up, and led him back to the room where, for the past month and a half, John had been living. It used to be Sherlock's childhood bedroom, massive and elegant, walls adorned with classic paintings and the framed score of an early copy of Handel's Messiah. Once Mycroft had John back in the bed, with blankets and the duvet pulled over him, the elder Holmes retreated to the hallway and phoned the hospital staff, informing them of the need to present themselves at once with the morphine for which John had asked.

Mycroft Holmes, the direct epitome of England itself, would make sure that John's last moments were spent within the walls of a room so achingly Sherlock. He knew without question what the two men had meant to each other, and he'd be damned if he let the old army doctor spiral into oblivion within the white confines of a Spartan hospital room.

John asked for Sherlock seven times that night, and mistook poor Mycroft for his brother at least twice when he dragged a chair beside the bed to sit and keep vigil. Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson came in the morning, Lestrade with the Stradivarius and Martha with the skull. They stayed for hours, watching as John drifted further and further into blackness, feeling the twist in their guts that felt both terrible and wonderful at the same time.

_He's almost home._

Mycroft played the violin with less skill than Sherlock had, but well enough that with the sheets of compositions from the Bromley flat that Martha had given him he could play one of Sherlock's originals for John. And so Sherlock's brother played, oblivious to the fact that the music was the exact piece Sherlock had teased from the violin's strings the week before he drifted away. As the music flowed over them, Mycroft could see the tension in John's face slip away as the sick doctor slowly fell asleep to the comforting, achingly familiar music. Martha kissed John's forehead and left the room after three minutes of the swirling music, tears in her eyes. Greg lasted almost fifteen minutes longer, and when he left he looked Mycroft long in the eye, unspoken understanding passing between them that John would not hold on for much longer.

He slipped away two nights later. Mycroft held his hand in the last hours, quietly whispering stories about his and Sherlock's childhood, shamelessly letting the tears fall for both John and his long departed brother.

* * *

They held the funeral after four days. Mycroft paid for it all, making sure the burial plot lay right next to Sherlock's. He even paid to have Sherlock's headstone replaced to match John's, listing them both as dearly beloved brothers, sons, and soulmates. Anthea stood silent and beautiful beside Mycroft, there because she too had loved John Watson. Harry arrived with her and John's parents, sober for once. Lestrade came with Molly, Martha, and even Sarah Sawyer, and half the Yarders showed up to pay their respects to both men buried beneath the lonely tree. Some apologized, some thanked them for deeds done and cases solved, and every mourner shed tears.

Mycroft, the last to leave the gravesite, quietly sent Anthea back to the car. She hesitated only for a moment, briefly resting her hand on the forearm of his immaculate suit jacket. Mycroft, not watching his assistant leave, leaned on his umbrella with an expression on his face that hadn't been there since his mother died. He stared at the twin markers, thinking about having the statue of an angel commissioned to look over the reunited duo.

"You two definitely loved each other," Mycroft uttered, his features drawn and weary. "Anyone could've seen that. And I know you two did as well…even if it took a while." He felt his throat constrict and he coughed to clear it, taking his eyes off the stone slabs to cast his gaze across the field of the dead. "There are many things I'm sorry about. Many things I wish I could go back and tweak to change their outcomes. Things I should have told you both…and other things I never should have said." He looked back down at the fresh earth. "It's a small comfort that you're both together now, instead of wasting away apart."

The British government took a deep, steadying breath, and gave a stiff salute to them. He left then, and only stopped when he knew another step would take him out of sight of the lonely tree.

When Mycroft took one last look over his shoulder at the graves, he forever swore that he could see the angel Sherlock Holmes in the tight embrace of the angel John Watson, both watching him, their wings drawing elegant, crystalline lines in the air around them. Mycroft gazed at them for several seconds, but when he blinked to rid his eyes of the tears that gathered there, the two angels had vanished, and Mycroft Holmes knew he would not see them again.

And when he spoke his last words to them, he said them softly.

"Look after each other, now."


End file.
